


You Might Think It's Stupid

by quirkysubject



Category: due South
Genre: Country Music, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-20
Updated: 2006-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22936672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: Ray doesn't get country music. So what the hell is he doing at a Gordon Lighfoot concert?
Relationships: Fraser/Kowalski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	You Might Think It's Stupid

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my [Livejournal](https://missapocalyptic.livejournal.com/20730.html) in March 2006

_You might think it’s art  
But I still think it’s stupid._

Those slightly twisted words of an Old ‘97’s song came to my mind when I listened to Fraser and Turnbull discussing country music for the first time. I think there are certain things you can only appreciate if you are a lot older than me or Canadian - or both. Like chatting about the mating behaviour of beavers. Or the belief that eight men pushing rocks over a field of ice is a sport. Or that tea makes a thrilling topic of conversation.

Or country music.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I hate it, I just don’t get the _point_ of it. If I am lovesick, I listen to Leonard Cohen, if I wanna score with a woman, I listen to Sting. If I wanna dance, I listen to Abba. If I feel nostalgic, I listen to The Beatles. But I’m still not able to figure out what mood you have to be in to listen to country music. Old guys with funny hats singing about how their girlfriend left them 300 years ago. But they sing it in a _happy_ way. And 30 other old guys with funny hats do this square dance thing, that looks like a mixture of military parade, cowboys on X and Our Little Farm.

So, why do these two get off on this? Yeah, I know, there’s the obvious, that Fraser is homesick and country reminds him of home, yadda yadda, big deal. But that means that he must’ve liked it _before_ he left home. And that’s what I don’t get.

Okay, usually this wouldn’t bother me. If he likes it, he can listen to this stuff as much and as often as he wants to. I’m cool with that. Hm, maybe except for the tiny voice inside my head that tells me that _I_ will have to listen to it too, as soon as Fraser moves in with me. Hardy ha ha! Of course I know that this is never gonna happen, but the irrational part of me can’t get rid off the thought that it _would_ become a problem _if_ this should ever happen, by any miracle whatsoever (Fraser getting abducted by Aliens, who make funny stuff with his brain, so that he’ll fall madly in love and into bed with me, for example). So, actually, I’m okay with this.

Until three weeks ago, when Fraser came to the precinct. We liaised, Francesca embarrassed herself, Welsh ate a sandwich, I tried to keep myself from jumping Fraser. So on the surface there was nothing unusual about this day, but I couldn’t get rid off the feeling that something was hinky. I couldn’t figure what it was, until I took a closer look at Fraser. I mean, a cop look, not an “I wanna get into your pants”-look or a “You’re a freak but would you please let me get into your pants?”-look. A look that I threw at him every once in a while to see if he’d a) hurt himself, b) got himself a girlfriend, or c) by any circumstances finally would let me get into his pants. An observant look.

And if I didn’t know better, I’d say that he was fidgeting. Or strictly speaking that he was fighting hard not to fidget. And then I noticed that the corners of his mouth were dangerously near to forming into an actual smile. Since the whole episode with this Bounty-hunter chick a few weeks ago, his mood had swayed between depressed and irritable (of course only in the slight, barely noticeable way of his). I couldn’t figure out what had happened between the two of them that night at the consulate, but there must have been something, judging from his behaviour after she left. I’m pretty sure they didn’t do The Naughty - that’d be way to Un-Fraserish, but still…

So I grew a bit suspicious, because his whole attitude sent out signs pointing at suggestion number two on my list. The worst of all: the Girlfriend. I made a quick check for hickeys, swollen lips and maybe shadows under his eyes from sleep deprivation. Negative, thank god. Then I went through the list of possible girlfriend candidates:  
Frannie? Nah, I’d have known about that the second I stepped into the bullpen this morning. The Ice Queen? Not very likely; I didn’t notice any bondage marks around his wrists.

After experiencing a short rush of pride, because the length of Fraser’s list of probable female mating partners was even more pathetic than mine, I decided this theory wasn’t very convincing, though I didn’t quite dump it, because it was the only one I had. The only thing I knew for sure was that the true reason didn’t have anything to do with our work, otherwise he would have told me by then.

So I behaved myself, busted a few lowlife drug dealers and tried not to build up the silliest fantasies about what was wrong with my partner. I tried. But by the time my shift ended and we were heading toward Tony’s to grab something to eat, it was still nagging at me. And I was already imagining fantasy #34: Fraser and I doing it on the backseat of my GTO (this is the one right after doing it on the driver’s seat and before doing it on the passenger seat). Okay, so I wasn’t thinking about his behaviour _all the time_ and maybe my fantasies drifted a bit… (nobody’s perfect). And the words “Fraser” and “fantasy” in one sentence are not very helpful when it comes to concentrating on something important.

Fraser sat in said passenger seat and after five minutes started humming to the Bruce Springsteen song on the radio. That did it.

“Come on, Fraser, what’s the matter with you?”

He stopped humming and looked at me, puzzled. “What do you mean, Ray?”

“You know what I mean. You. What’s up, Fraser? Spit it out. Did you score last night or what?”

“Score?”

Oh no, please! I had been patient all day long, I wasn’t equipped for playing “Naïve Mountie”. I sighed. I had three possibilities now: I could drop the topic, I could embarrass him by explaining the meaning of “score” in nice, graphic expressions (although I’m sure he knows perfectly well what it means, he simply doesn’t want to admit it), or I could ignore his comment but still stay on the subject.

“Never mind. I just wanna know why you’re so… giddy today.”

“I am not “giddy”, Ray.”

“You fidget, you smile…” Okay, I was exaggerating there, but who cares? “…you _hum_! So I simply wanna know why? Is it the Queen’s birthday or what?”

“No, Ray, I…” A pause, an eyebrow-rub, a light smile – What the… ? “Actually there is something I was looking forward to telling you. But I thought maybe I’d be best if I waited until we reach a more quiet atmosphere than there is at work or in a moving vehicle.”

Yeah, I’d kinda figured that myself. I gave it a last try. “Don’tcha think the atmosphere is quiet enough now?”

He grinned at me like an idiot and shook his head. He was behaving like… like a kid that has a big surprise for his parents. I’d never seen him that way. Ever.

I was so fucking curious that, when we finally reached Tony’s and took our seats, I was dying to punch someone. I realized that maybe he wasn’t the only one behaving childishly, but dear Lord, he was the one who started it! And all the time he didn’t stop acting as if he’d discovered the Coca Cola recipe.

I knew that it was hopeless to try and pry it outta him, so I made conversation with him until we had ordered. From my seat I had a good look at the big clock on the other side of the room. I don’t think the hands had ever moved that slowly.

After our pizzas had arrived, Big Red, god of secrecy, finally, _finally_ , decided the time had come to reveal the mystery.

“What I wanted to tell you, Ray, is that today…”

Another pause. Dammit. Beaming he reached into the pocket of his tunic. Slowly the thought came to me that most probably the whole thing wasn’t worth all this tension and excitement and thinking. I swear if he’d shown me a package of pemmican-deluxe or his new fav bark tea, I’d have strangled him. I swear.

Instead he pulled out three little innocent cards and shoved them over to me. “…today the tickets for Gordon Lightfoot’s only Chicago concert date arrived!”

Before I had the opportunity to launch myself at him to get a good grip at his head or to draw my gun and shoot him on the spot, he continued talking.

“I was hoping that maybe you would like to accompany me.”

Stunned, I stared down at the tickets in my hands. He couldn’t mean that. First he had let me make a complete fool of myself all day, then the whole surprise was even worse than pemmican or tea, and in the end he wanted to drag me there too? I was seriously pissed off.

I looked up, wanting to show him exactly _how_ pissed off I was. But when my eyes reached his face I… couldn’t. His eyes were sparkling and he looked so happy and he looked at me so… expectantly. Again I was reminded of a child. He looked like a two-year old, who has presented his parents with a picture he has drawn himself. And what parent in this world would be able to tell the kid that it didn’t look like father, mother, kid but more like three gigantic, exploded moths? So outta some weird kind of… paternal instinct or something, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that he could stick these tickets right up his ass. Instead I opened and closed my mouth like a fish on dry land, unable to decide what the hell to say to him. It was all a little too much for my brain.

In the end I said the most positive thing I could think of: “That’s…uhm… I’m really… I mean… you know…”

I think considering my condition that was pretty eloquent.

His beaming reached new levels. I was half convinced he’d glow in the dark like some piece of radioactive waste, if someone had put out the light in that moment.

“Oh Ray, I am so glad. It will be a delightful evening.”

I gave him my best half-hearted grin - really, I wasn’t able to pull off more than that.

During the rest of the evening I got the feeling that even a country music concert couldn’t be all bad, if it gave me the chance to get more of Fraser’s “Sweep me off my feet”- smiles.

When we stopped in front of the consulate later that night I remembered that he had three tickets, so I asked him who the third one was for. And I dreaded the answer before I got to hear it.

“I thought I might ask Constable Turnbull to join us.” With that he bid me goodnight and rushed off into the building, leaving me to my renewed misery.

Lord, grant me the serenity…

So, here I am, sitting next to two Mounties in an over-crowded music hall, waiting for the concert to begin.

Over the past few weeks there seemed to be nothing that could spoil Fraser’s mood – or stop him from giving lectures about “the white man’s Blues”, as Dewey put it once. Although there was nothing, _nothing_ , that was less of an aim in my life than becoming a country music expert, you can’t help but become one if you have Fraser, Huey and Dewey around all the time. Since I agreed to accompany him Fraser thinks I am a fan of this kinda music (and now it’s too late to tell him otherwise). He is so into his own world that it isn’t hard to pretend interest. A forced smile and the occasional nod is enough to make him more than happy. And somehow deep within myself I still hope that maybe I’ll start to like or at least understand it, once I get to the concert, get a feeling for the atmosphere and stuff. So, hey, no one can say I’m not trying. The three stake-outs with Fraser and his bloody tapes were torture. But, as I said, I gave my best.

The surroundings are quite nice actually. It’s hot in here, but that wasn’t unexpected. Unexpected is more that there are actually seats around tiny round tables, so the atmosphere is more like a bar with live music rather than on a concert by one of Canada’s living legends (according to Fraser). And to my great surprise I discover some guys, who are a) younger than me and b) don’t look like cowboys. Or whatever the Canadian equivalent of a cowboy is. A Mooseboy, maybe.

I can _feel_ how excited the two Mounties are next to me. Turnbull brought his little digi-cam with him and takes photos of everything: Fraser, me, the closed curtains in front of the stage, the ceiling. He keeps a small bag on his lap, tightly clutched with his free hand and for a horrifying minute I wonder if he plans to throw underwear on the stage.

I deliberately focus on Fraser again, to get those images out of my mind. He really looks great tonight. I’m getting a little annoyed with myself, because of all the mooning over him. But there’s nothing I can do about it: Fraser appears – Ray switches into Dummy mode. It’s a fucking law of nature and maybe it’d be best if I simply accepted it.

But back to the topic. Everything about Fraser seems to be loosened up. His hair – though not tousled (it’s still Fraser we’re talking about) is less gel-disciplined than usual, so that its waviness is clearly visible. His face is relaxed – no frown, no set jaw, no eyebrow-rubbing – and he laughs a lot while he’s talking shop with Turnbull. His clothes are casual, too: a plain black T-shirt and… Oh, Blue-jeans… forget casual, forget relaxed, forget loosened up, these are the definition of tight. And though I’m pretty sure that my own are not, they seem to be getting more like Fraser’s by the second.

 _Okay. Sit back, look at the stage and… breathe, right… and breathe._ I look down at my lap. Oh, that’s greatness (heh, in every sense of the word, Baby), because my partner (the one who Stella claimed does all the thinking for me) is way too interested in my Mountie. So I shift and twist in my seat, trying to find a position that is comfortable and concealing at the same time. After five minutes I give in and settle for concealing, because Mr. Eagle-Eyes already sensed that something’s wrong. He gives me those curious looks, but before we can say our lines (“Is everything all right, Ray?” “Yes, no problem.” “Are you sure?” “I am.” “But…”) the curtains open and applause is welling up all around, accompanied by high-pitched screams, but I can’t (and don’t really try to) figure out if they are coming from Turnbull or the 100-year old lady next to him.

I clap my hands automatically and lean back in my seat – let the games begin.

The following two hours are not as bad as I dreaded, but also not as good as I had secretly hoped. The nice thing is that country music has the same effect on me as a cold shower, so that it only took two minutes until my jeans fitted as well as always again. I immediately decide to mentally sing “Farewell to Nova Scotia” the next time my dick runs amok.

It’s… OK. I recognize some songs Fraser had played to me, and some others, Traditionals, seem to be familiar, too. But maybe it’s just because it all sounds very much the same to me. There is some stuff I like, but the lyrics still seem kinda dull to me most of the time.

When the last encore is finished and the band has finally disappeared from the stage we stay at our table until the crowd thins (by the way: Turnbull’s bag contained just sandwiches, no long-johns or furry handcuffs, no need to worry there. Though I have no idea what possessed him to bring sandwiches to a concert. Maybe you get some sort of badge for this in Canada. Maybe he is just deranged.)

My two companions spend the time looking at the pictures Turnbull took. I shake my head; this is something I’ll never get. It’s like what Stella used to do after she went shopping: every single time she would change into the clothes she’d just bought and walk up and down in front of me, forcing me make encouraging noises and comments – although I’d already made them when she wore the stuff in the shops. What did she expect? That they’d changed colour? Or size? All I could do was to accept it and wait until it was over. At least I knew I would be rewarded with a good-tempered Stella (and most probably equally good-tempered sex) afterwards. Here I would be rewarded with a good-tempered Fraser (which unfortunately would most probably not conclude in sex of any kind.)

Finally the hall has cleared enough for us to get outside, too. After the heat inside, the chilly night air feels great on my damp hair and skin, and I take some deep breaths. Fraser and I decide to have a late dinner at my place, because we didn’t eat anything before the concert. Turnbull declines the invitation, he had his sandwiches. He says goodbye and thanks Fraser for what seems like the thousandth time, then he is on his way home. I feel a little more relaxed. Turnbull may be a really nice guy, but I don’t feel strong enough to stand more than three hours of his cheery, good-hearted… Canadianess. A cheerful, giggly Fraser is enough to deal with.

A Fraser that won’t stop talking about this “great evening”, that forces me to confirm again and again how much I enjoyed the concert. As I said, I had some beers, I had Fraser in tightightight jeans sitting next to me and I didn’t exactly hate the music, so I can’t honestly say that I had a bad time. But I can’t say that it was the time of my life either.

So he really annoys me. I had promised myself not to spoil his mood and to just agree with him, I nodded and grunted every now and then during our drive home, but by the time we have reached my apartment, I crack. I slam down the kettle I filled to fix him some tea and turn toward Fraser, who is interrupted mid-sentence.

“Listen, Frase”, I start, surprised at how calm my voice sounds. Well, I’m pretty much using all self-restraint I’ve got left. “I know how much you like Country music and I also know that you had the best… uhm… intentions when you asked me to come with you tonight.” He nods and smiles his “It was my pleasure”-smile. “But it’s just not my kinda music. I don’t like it, I don’t get it. Never have, never will.” My voice has become a lot louder with this last sentence and I pause to take a deep breath.

Fraser looks hurt. Great. Greatness. Before I can explain to him that I still enjoyed the evening and I still could be enjoying it if he just decided to shut up for at least five minutes, he is talking again. I growl an internal growl. A menacing one.

“Why?” is all he asks.

Dear Fraser, could you please stop making me feel like the lowest low-life on earth? Could you please stop looking at me as if I stabbed you in the back? Because it’s not fair. You have been the insensitive and oblivious one, all evening. No, strike that, you’ve been that for more than six solid months now.

But of course instead of telling him that I start a discussion with him. “Why what?” I snap.

“Why did you tell me you would like to accompany me, why did you tell my you enjoyed yourself, why did you lie to me?”

Congratulations, Kowalski, you are nominated for the “Fuck-up of the year”-award. I could smack myself. Probably deserve it. Not because Fraser’s right (he isn’t), but because I chose the worst strategy of all: I lied. And then I didn’t carry it through to the end. And then I blamed it all on him. Sounds like a triple-nomination. Of course he wouldn’t have been insulted if I had simply told him that I’m not a Gordon Lightfoot fan. A little disappointed maybe, but he would have understood. But I lied to him about that, for two whole weeks, and now I’m blaming him for believing me.

God, I _am_ the biggest low-life on earth.

“Fraser, I…” he turns away and walks outta the kitchen. Fraser not letting me finish my sentence? Fraser not listening to me? I can’t believe it! I am about to endanger my friendship with him because of some freak with a guitar, who sings silly songs?

I follow him through the door, my mood changing from self-conscious to seriously pissed to find him sitting on the couch, as though he was expecting me.

“Fraser, goddammit, at least listen to me!”

If I didn’t know him better I’d say his posture and voice are relaxed as he answers me.

“I do, Ray.”

That’s all. He offers to listen to me. Only problem is, despite my words I’m not in explaining mood anymore. I was a couple of seconds ago. I was about to spill my guts when he pissed me off big time. So now I’m in shouting, fighting, kicking-heads mood. And again he tries to spoil it, expects me to go into talking-mode again, like I’m some kind of Apologize-Robot. Who does he think he is?

“Who do you think you are?” I bellow.

He stiffens and the muscles in his jaw tighten. “Who do I think _I_ am?” he asks, his voice low and controlled. I hate him for it.

“Yes! I wanna explain everything – you don’t let me! I wanna fight with you – you don’t let me! How can you be so… so…?” I don’t find the right word, so no surprises there and that enrages me even more. So I prove my point by slamming my fist against the frame of the kitchen door.

He stands up and grabs his Stetson. “I thought you’d take pleasure in the invitation. It appears I was terribly mistaken. Sorry for forcing you to endure this.” During his little speech he shrugs into his coat and walks towards the door.

Oh, yeah, that’s nice. Pissing me off first, then giving me a bad conscience and then just walking away, leaving it to me to feel like an asshole fort he next few days. No way, Fraser buddy, not this time. I reach the door with two fast steps, turn the key and take it with me as I lean against the kitchen counter.

Fraser stays calm, of course he does, as he turns toward me. “I’d like to leave now, Ray.”

I’m proud to say that my voice is as calm as his as I reply. “Well, I’d like to spend the night with Catherine Zeta-Jones. Won’t happen either.”

His eyes narrow. Just a bit, but it’s enough for me to notice. Finally a reaction, finally something that shows he can’t be his statue-like self forever. “What do you want, Ray?”

Yeah, that’s the big question, ain’t it? What do I want? Normally it’s quite it easy for me to find an answer if I think about “Fraser” and “want” at the same time. What comes to my mind right now is something entirely different. “Pop you one”, “a cigarette”, “whiskey” and “coffee”. I chose the one that’s most easy to get and take the half-empty bottle of single-malt from the drawer. Taking my time I fill a glass and drain it in one gulp.

Fraser watches me, but doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move. I know I annoy him, but I think he deserves it. The alcohol burns in my throat, but in some weird way it calms me down. No question, Fraser could easily kick in the door if he really wanted to, but for some reason he doesn’t. And that makes it clear to me that I’m in the leading role here, that he won’t go until he’s got my answer. Sure, on the surface I’m the reacting one, but it doesn’t feel that way. Fraser is insecure, he doesn’t know what to make of this situation. He can deal with me when I’m freaking out, when I’m shouting and swearing, he’s experienced that often enough. But now his usual tactics have failed and he’s confronted with a new situation and he didn’t figure how to deal with it yet.

I slump down on the couch and fill my glass again. “I want you to drop the attitude”, I say finally. “And don’t ask me what I mean, you know that damn well. I want you to stop behaving like St. Martyr and just sit down here. And I want you to listen to me, to really listen to me, without understanding me wrong on purpose, without playing the naïve Mountie. Can you do that?”

He thinks about it, just for a second, then he comes and places himself at the corner of the couch. Without removing his coat or his Stetson, but still – that I got him this far, that he actually, one time, did what I asked him to do, that it isn’t the other way round; all that makes me feel as if I just won a big victory. That’s more than I achieved during the fights we’ve had before.

I raise my glass to him shortly and drain it; getting in the mood to talk. I feel a strange kind of generosity toward him. I don’t wanna torture him or anything, I really wanna work it out, once and for all.

“OK, Frase.” I turn towards him. His lips are compressed to a thin line and everything that was relaxed just an hour ago is now tense and strained.

“About what I said before: I didn’t wanna hurt you. I really didn’t, it just… was too much all of a sudden. You know me – talk first, think later.” He nods and I take that as a sign that he’s not going to stop me from talking. So I continue.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry, but I’ll never get off on Country like you do.”

“But you told me so when I showed you the tickets.”

“No. No, I didn’t. I just…” Fuck, this is more difficult to explain than I thought it’d be. “Look, I really enjoyed myself tonight. I didn’t lie. You and Turnbull were great fun, the music was OK and… yeah, I had fun.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

Fuck, I’m doing everything I can to be calm and sensible and obliging here, and he still acts like Constable Frozenass, the goddamn Ice Prince.

“Dammit, Frase, what didya expect me to do? Tell you that I was completely disappointed by your “surprise”? That I didn’t want to go?”

“That would have been the honest thing to say.”

I shake my head. “You should’ve seen yourself. You were so… confident and happy and relaxed… Fuck, Fraser, I never saw you that way before.”

“And? You thought I’d break if you told me what you thought? What you really felt? You thought I couldn’t stand it?”

Fuck controlled, fuck calm, fuck reasonable. I get up, pacing up and down in front of him.

“No! Of course you could have stood it. But do you know how rarely I see you laugh? Or being relaxed? Do you have any idea? Do you have any idea how much distance you still keep between us? By being polite, by being controlled, by being so goddamn uptight?”

His face is unreadable now. Maybe I’m getting through his barriers now, maybe I building up even more. But if there’s the slightest chance to get into his thick skull what he does to me when he keeps me away from him – then it’s worth the risk.

“I wanted to see you that way, that side of you I don’t get to see very often. And all I had to do was to… huh, I didn’t even have to lie, I just had to not tell the truth. And yeah, I know that’s as good as a lie in Mountie-land, but not here and not for me. And I thought that maybe I should give it a chance, that maybe I’d learn to like that kind of music once I‘d been to the concert, but sorry, I still don’t. But I fucking tried!”

Still he doesn’t try to say anything. I don’t know if he is listening to me anymore, but I keep on talking anyway.

“So call me selfish or egoistic because I took the chance to get closer to you, but don’t treat me like I’m not worth the air I’m breathing.”

The only thing he does is look at me. I wait for a short moment, then I shrug and head toward the kitchen. I did everything I could. And if he decides to behave like a baby, I can’t help him. I almost have to laugh: everyone thinks he’s the rational one. Yeah, tell me another one.

I get myself a glass of water and sit down on a chair. What now? I have no doubt that he’ll calm down eventually, that we’ll apologize and forget about the whole thing. That we’ll work together, can be friends as we were before. But the chance to get the real Fraser is gone. If that was the real Fraser at all. Maybe this cheery side of him was just a phase, that he is what he shows everyone and the way he behaved during the last two weeks were just a sign that he… how would he put it?... had a “temporary hole in his bag of marbles”. I can’t really believe that, but it makes me feel better to cling to that thought, than to accept that I lost my one and only chance.

Suddenly Fraser’s standing in the kitchen. Still in his coat, but at least the Stetson is gone. A good sign? Or just a sign that he’s seriously pissed and taken off his hat before he pops me one, like I’d do with my glasses?

When he talks his voice is quiet. Maybe there’s more in his voice, disappointment, sadness, shyness…? No word that comes to my mind really fits. Something in between, or strictly speaking something more, something above that.

“Never do this again, Ray.”

And somehow I know he isn’t talking about my outburst a few minutes ago or the fact that I practically locked him in my apartment. It’s about the acting, the dishonesty. It’s that he thinks I took pity on him, that I thought he’d crack if I told him the truth. Which is true on some, but so wrong on so many other levels.

I palm my face and rub my temples with my thumbs. “I know, Fraser. I know. It’s just that I wanted to… I want…” I want so much, a lifetime wouldn’t be long enough to put it all down on a list.

“You want to get close.”

Oh, if he knew… I look up, a small smile playing around my lips. “Yes.” It feels good to pretend we’re talking about the same thing here, even if I know we aren’t.

Or are we?

For a moment I feel a rush of adrenaline pumping through my system, causing a weird mix of puzzlement and hope. What’s this expression on his face, what does his body language tell me, is he trying to tell me more than he’s actually saying? My mind has a hard time trying to catch up with my runaway imagination and all the thoughts, words, pictures it etches into my mind within fractions of a second. Until the battle is won and everything is stored in some dark, filthy corner of my brain again (where it will stay until… well, until tonight, if I’m lucky), I decide it couldn’t hurt to play the game a little longer. Just a little.

I stand up.

“So, you’ll let me?”

He takes a deep breath and I do the same. In synch, as we used to be. And despite my doubts a small, always unreasonable part of me, the one that gets me into trouble so often, hopes we will still be a second later.

Fraser takes a big step toward me, than he stops again. 6 feet. “If I can ask for the same favour.”

His gaze feels like it’s glued to my face. I wet my lips in that nervous gesture that’s so typically him. Maybe he is just asking me never to act again, maybe he just wants to shorten the distance between us to show me that he accepts my apologies, maybe his eyes just search for that confirmation on my face, maybe…

But maybe this is the chance, the invitation I’ve been waiting for, ever since he stormed into the precinct. So I raise the stakes. As if they weren’t high enough already.

I take a step toward him, too. 4 feet.

“As close as you want.” I meet his gaze and hold it, daring him, inviting him, praying that I’d read the signs the right way, that there are signs at all.

Fraser does not hesitate this time. 2 feet.

Dear Lord, whatever you decide to do next, don’t, please don’t let my heart quit duty. Don’t let my last working brain cells go bye-bye and don’t let me say something incredibly stupid. Maybe you could decide not to interfere here at all for a few more minutes…?

Before my legs get the chance to give in, I take the last step. 0.065 feet. We must look pretty silly the way we stand there, nose to nose, toe to toe, neither of us moving, neither of us brave enough to close the last remaining gap.

Okay, a little interference here would be nice.

And then Fraser licks his lips. I don’t know if this an involuntary move or if he’s doing this on purpose, all I know is that if there ever was a sign, this was it. So I lean forward. -0.012 feet. Oh god.

When my brain restarts a few seconds later I sense that it is not so much greatness at all. My back is lightly bowed like I’m a Maître d’ who’s handling the wine table, my hands are dangling useless at my sides and, worst of all, I forgot to tilt my head, so that I’m more leaning against Fraser, our noses pressed together, than kissing him. For a long, horrible moment of sheer embarrassment I just stare into Fraser’s huge blue-grey eyes, panic-stricken and about to freak out.

Then the next miracle of this weirdest evening ever happens – Fraser gets into action. He brings his palms to each side of my face in a gentle but firm clasp and tilts my head until our lips finally slide together.

And it clicks, muscle memory or whatever it is returns, and I know what to do, automatically without thinking about it. My arms slide around his waist, my eyes close and my body sort of moulds against his, just… fitting, belonging, touching.

The kiss, this first, the most important, the most memorable kiss is as tender as Fraser’s big hands, which are cupping my face until one eventually slides into my hair, stroking.

It is as if we are on the inside of a great bubble underwater, far away from anything else, without the need to breath or move or do anything other than what we are already doing: chest leaning against chest, oh-so-soft lips sliding against mine and nothing but… feel.

Finally the time comes when the bubble around us vanishes soundlessly and we surface. I find myself with my face against his neck. I lean back to look at him and the look on his face makes me breathless. His grin is nothing but pure dorkiness, but he still manages to look more gorgeous and edible than I could possibly imagine.

I take my time to admire him, then I lean in again and – miracles never cease – this time I manage to do all the right moves in the right order all by myself. Testing, I prod my tongue against his lips and immediately the soft barrier disappears and is replaced by one remarkably hot, teasing and agile piece of flesh that doesn’t waste time with testing and prodding, but goes right for my tonsils. And this is not sweet and chaste anymore, this is seriously hot and sexy. My dick notices that too, and is straining for some attention now. So I turn us around a bit until Fraser is pressed up against the kitchen counter and I slide one of my legs between his. There it is, contact, still through several layers of underwear and rough denim but I’m sure this is heaven on earth. And, hello, I’m not the only who has something to be taken care of. I can feel his erection pressing against my thigh and the thought that I am the one who did this to him with only two kisses makes me… well, some might call it “whimper”, I call it “growl”. A high growl, maybe. But I couldn’t care less about words when I become aware of the sounds escaping Fraser’s throat. Small, panting moans, which turn me on big time, so I remember that the kitchen counter is maybe not the best place for a first time.

I drag my mouth away from his, which is more difficult that I thought, because his lips follow mine, unwilling to let go. And when his hands work down my zipper, hell, my whole body with my dick as ringleader is protesting, too. But I force myself to concentrate and I pull him back from the counter and against me. His constant nuzzling at my jaw and neck distracts me so much that my carefully thought out words come out of my mouth somewhat panted and incoherent.

“Fraser, maybe we… oh…” He does some kind of flicker against the sensitive skin directly under my ear and I decide to fuck coherence. “Go…bedroom…naked…?” I decide to fuck Pulitzer too, because it’s obvious that this simple form of communication works brilliantly well. At least for Fraser, and that’s all that matters.

Still not letting go of me he steers me out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the bedroom. The back of my knees hits the edge of the bed and I fall back on the mattress, dragging Fraser with me so that he collapses on top of me with a thud that presses all air out of my lungs. Somehow he has the presence of mind to prop up on his elbows, so I can breathe again. Fraser looks down on me and he is so… guh! Hot and sweaty and flushed and his hair all messed up… I start to wonder how I made it this far without coming in my damn pants. And thinking about my pants I notice that neither of us dropped one single piece of clothing. And that just doesn’t feel right.

So I roll us over and start to work up Fraser’s T-shirt over his belly and chest – god, most men would kill for a figure like this - plastering my trail with kisses and licks (actually the Mountie’s department, I know) until I have worked it over his head and can toss it to the side. Then I make short work of his trousers and boots. And because everything else would feel too much like unfinished work, I remove his boxers too. I feel like an artist when I look at the perfect, sinful piece of art that’s sprawled in front of me. A damn horny artist.

And horny artists don’t like to wait. I settle myself on him. Insecurities? Anxieties? This is way too good to care about anything other than his delicious rosy nipples. I start with licking and sucking, then finally add some teeth, while the thumb of my right hand takes care of the other side. Fraser’s wriggling and moaning and goddamn _shivering_ underneath me sets me on fire, wires me and I even feel as if my senses have been heightened, as if I can feel, smell and taste everything much more intensely than ever before.

When I change sides I cast a short glance at Fraser’s face and it’s a strange mixture of bliss, relaxation and extreme tension at the same time. He appears to be completely lost in himself. And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t resist and lick over his dark red lips with one swift sweep of my tongue, tasting sweat and Fraser, before I return to the wide playground that is his chest.

When I shift and lower my head again, my denim-clad thighs accidentally brush his groin and before can figure out what’s going on he flips me around and pins me to my bed with a chest-deep growl and starts kissing me and tugging at my clothes as if there was nothing else in this world. Totally stunned by this onslaught of full Mountie-power I just lie back and let him do whatever he has in mind.

And that seems to be getting rid of my clothes as fast as possible. He gets a little frustrated with the many buttons of my shirt, so he rips it open and off my body before I can even move my hands in the direction of my chest. I bite my lip to force myself not to come, because obviously shirt-ripping Fraser absolutely turns my crank. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I told Fraser to loosen up, but I’m hyper-okay with this outcome.

While my dazed brain is still busy forming these thoughts, Fraser yanks down everything that originally covered my legs and… nether regions. The expression on his face when he grabs my cock is pure hunger. And before I can get worried because we actually didn’t have any dinner at all he has swallowed me, and my dick sings Hallelujah and I’m dying a happy death.

I have no idea what he does and how he does it, but all that matters now is that he doesn’t stop. Ever. That he just spends the rest of his life in this bed with me, sucking and licking with this hot, soft mouth and his verboten talented tongue. And _he_ seems OK with this plan, the problem is _me_. I have been on edge since… since the kitchen counter, I guess and the sounds Fraser makes and the sounds I make and the fact he… oh sweet Jesus… just scraped his teeth ever so lightly over my burning flesh doesn’t make it easier for me to hold back. And finally another resolution goes: Fuck holding back!

I lift my hips and just let go, give him everything he wants, everything I can give, until it feels like there’s nothing more left of me than a smoking pile of ashes on the bed. And that’s an unexpectedly good feeling.

I’m dimly aware of the fact that Fraser is lying beside me, cradling me, caressing me, while I’m recovering. When I open my eyes after what seems like hours, I give him a weak smile. He looks as wiped out as I feel, but I can see a twinkle in his eye.

“Ray?”

“Hm?”

“There will be a documentary about the life of Roald Amundsen on Discovery Channel tomorrow evening. Would you like to watch it with me?”

“Very much so, yes, Fraser,” I murmur, using his favourite phrase.

“Then you’d probably like to see the following one about the fascinating world of Furry Nightcrawlers, too?”

“Oh, I’d love to.”

He doesn’t give up yet. “And maybe you want to accompany me to an exhibition of Inuit art next we…”

I smack him with a pillow, growling. “Don’t overdo it, or I’ll…”

“…kick you in the head?”

“You got it, smart-ass.”

He pulls me close and I seize the opportunity to plant a few more kisses on his neck. I’m a bit indecisive, whether I should go for a round two or just stay in the luxury of his warmth and comfort. And, yeah, I am a lazy bastard at times, so I just snug up as close to him as possible and delay any other… actions until later.

Before I drift off to sleep something else comes to mind.

“Fraser?”

All I earn is a soft snore. So I sigh and decide that it actually doesn’t matter if he hears me or not.

“It _is_ an art,” I whisper against his skin.


End file.
